


The Shuffle of the Angel's Feet

by ronans



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Angel Ian, Death, Limbo, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead and in denial: Mickey’s new tagline. Ian’s just got to try to get him to believe he’s dead and then guide him to properly ride out the afterlife. Thing is, Mickey’s a pretty stubborn guy, and even after he’s come around to the idea of being dead, Ian’s job’s not over. In order to complete his task, he’s got to put Mickey through pain once again, but it’s harder for Ian than most angels considering how attached he’s grown to the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stage 1: Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Noel for continually referring to Ian as Mickey's guiding angel  
> Title: God's Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash

The sound of gunshots really isn’t uncommon in Mickey’s neighbourhood. This time it’s slightly different though because barely a second after he hears them, his vision goes completely white.

‘Shit,’ he hisses, practically clawing at his eyes. He can’t see anything and he’s more than a little concerned about this feeling of dread spreading throughout his entire body, originating from the back of his head. It’s a darkness that’s slowly eating its way through his veins and he doesn’t know _what the fuck’s going on_.

He’s so disorientated and he wishes he was with someone he knew so he could ask them what’s happening, if maybe there’s a freak alien invasion occurring or some shit that would account for it so maybe he’s not alone in this hideous experience. All he can do is stumble forward blindly, hoping he’s correctly putting one foot in front of the other and not about to get hit by a car or run straight into a brick wall.

Mickey doesn’t know exactly how long this lasts for, but it feels like an eternity and it’s _horrible_. Eventually the whiteness starts to fade away in spots, slowly revealing more and more of his surroundings. In reality, Mickey hadn't walked more than a few steps but it had seemed like he’d been trekking for miles. His bones feel kind of dull and his muscles worn, that’s the only way he can think to describe it.

When he can finally fully see again, the previously busy street he’d been walking down is suddenly devoid of people. When he looks more closely, however, he spots a lone man leaning against a wall a few feet away just _staring_ directly at him.

‘Can I fucking _help you_?’ he yells at the stranger, striding forward, prepared to start something. For someone who’d been pretty much blind mere moments before, he’s sprung back damn quickly.

‘Mickey Milkovich,’ the man says, squinting against the afternoon sun. Mickey stops dead in his tracks because, sure, his family’s notorious in the South Side, but this guy doesn’t look like someone who’d pay attention to stuff like that.

‘You been stalking me?’ Mickey grinds out, cracking his knuckles, because he’s more than ready to teach a person how bad tailing a Milkovich is with his fists.

‘You’re dead, Mickey.’

‘What the _fuck_.’ Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

‘I’m an angel.’

‘Like fuck you are,’ Mickey snorts, eyeing the man up and down. He perseveres, Mickey’s denial apparently not putting him off.

‘My name’s Ian, I’ve been assigned to you.’

‘Yeah, ‘cause Ian’s such a fucking angelic name, good one.’

“Ian” just stares at him with a neutral, unaffected expression. It’s kind of unnerving.

‘Mickey, you have to believe me. I’m here to guide you until-‘

‘Until I’m accepted into the pearly gates? Right, okay, tough guy,’ Mickey mocks, shaking his head and then digging around in his jeans pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He comes up with nothing and curses under his breath. ‘Mandy fuckin’ lifted my smokes again?’

Ian quirks an eyebrow disbelievingly. ‘You can’t smoke if you’re dead.’

‘I’m not dead! Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you?’

‘Okay, sure.’

Mickey lets out an irritated breath. ‘You clearly ain’t from ‘round here if you think hearin’ gunshots a couple of streets over’ll kill you.’ The eyebrow stays elevated and it’s just making Mickey’s patience grow even thinner. ‘Why don’t you fly your feathery ass back to Heaven and leave me the fuck alone,’ Mickey suggests, entertaining the "angel"'s story in the hopes that maybe he’ll go away.

Ian scoffs and rolls his eyes. ‘Not until I get you to admit how dead you are, Milkovich.’

Mickey stares at him for a few seconds before exploding. ‘ _I’m not dead you deranged asshole!_ ’

‘You’ll soon see.’

Mickey’s eyes bug he’s getting so frustrated. ‘You crazy cryptic fuck, is that a damn threat?’

Another eye roll. ‘It’s me telling you that you won’t be thinking like that for long.’

Mickey titters and shakes his head. ‘What, you take me to my own bloodied, dead body and we cry about it?’

Ian purses his lips and nods slowly. ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

‘Oh my g- this is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard. You seriously think I’m gonna believe this?’

‘No, that’s why my job’s so frustrating,’ Ian replies, finally pushing off the wall and standing upright. He’s a fair few inches taller than Mickey and the sun practically sets alight his ginger hair. Mickey looks him over again and realises that he’s wearing all white clothing. Wow this guy really went all out.

‘You’re gonna get robbed walking around here lookin’ like that.’

‘Unless you're the one robbing me, I don’t think we have a problem.’

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. ‘How’d you figure that?’

‘You’re the only one who can see me.’

Mickey blinks and then starts to laugh. ‘Well this just gets better and better. Alright, have a nice fucking life, goodbye.’ With that, Mickey does what he should have done ages ago and takes off down the road, continuing his journey back home. A day’s never felt so long and he can’t wait for it to be over.

He narrows his eyes because he can’t hear footsteps but there’s definitely someone behind him. He whips his head around and jumps.

‘You keep tailin’ me and you’re about to have a pole shoved up your ass.’ Mickey inclines his head to the scaffolding climbing up the side of the building they're just passing to let Ian know he’s got the tools to follow through with the warning.

‘Kinky.’

‘If you’re gonna claim to be an angel, at least fucking act like one,’ Mickey says, inwardly kicking himself because he can’t believe he’s even slightly following along with the man’s story.

He hears an annoyed sigh before something zips dangerously close past Mickey’s head, something glowing and round and _gold_.

‘Halos, right? Gotta love ‘em,’ Ian says, all sunny like that wasn’t the freakiest shit, grabbing the halo from out of the air as it zooms back towards him like a fucking boomerang. Yeah, he just keeps seeming to one up himself.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ Mickey yells, taking a few steps back from Ian.

‘ _Now_ do you believe I’m an ethereal being who has descended from the Heavens to guide you through the acceptance process?’

Mickey pauses for a moment and then continues walking down the street, not answering the question but insinuating a positive response through his next question. ‘Why didn’t you just show me your fucking wings?’ Mickey’d never thought he’d have to ask that question.

Ian shrugs. ‘Eh. Cliché. Plus, you've been kind of annoying me so I wanted to surprise you.’

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up and then he glares at the angel. _Angel, Jesus fucking Christ._ ‘Are you even allowed to say shit like that?’

Again, he shrugs. ‘Probably not... Extenuating circumstances.’ Mickey hadn't even realised they'd stopped walking again, but Ian starts it back up by slapping Mickey’s arm and striding along the sidewalk. He doesn’t have to look back to know Mickey’s trailing after him. ‘Come on, we’ve got to find somewhere to stay while you sort through this shit.’

‘Did a fucking _ethereal being who has descended from the Heavens_ just curse at me?’

Mickey’s now going at the same pace as Ian so can see his answering expression, one side of his mouth pulled up in a half smile, eyes forward.

‘Good, you’ve been listening.’

‘Yeah, okay, so where’re we going?’ Now Mickey thinks about it, he can’t really believe he’s just following this strange man who appeared out of nowhere, scared the shit out of him and told him he was dead. Then again, there’s literally no one else around, the streets look like a fucking tumbleweed would look right at home they're that quiet.

‘Like I said, we need to find somewhere to stay.’

Mickey furrows his brows and keeps his eyes to the ground. ‘Why the hell would we need to stay somewhere?’

‘Until you're cool with being dea-‘

‘Not dead,’ Mickey automatically cuts in.

‘Ugh,’ Ian breathes, looking irritated again. ‘Yeah, exactly, until you get your head around it, we need somewhere to live, somewhere where I can guide you through to acceptance.’

‘Give me an idea of the timescale here,’ Mickey says because he wants to know how long getting to the bottom of the reason for this crazy shit is going to take before he can be okay again, before the world rights itself.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Helpful!’ But still, he follows.


	2. Stage 2: Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~fully realising the similarities to Dead Like Me so I'm deciding to not watch past the first episode until I've finished this~  
> I hope this is coherent - it's nearly 4:30AM

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Mickey sighs, watching as Ian presses his ear against the front door of a random house on another abandoned street.

‘Breaking into an empty house so we can stay in it.’ Ian pulls out a lock picker from his back pocket and closes one eye as he starts working in the lock.

‘I thought you said no one could fucking see us? Why would we need to stay in an _empty_ house?’

As Ian finally pops the lock, he smirks up at Mickey, shouldering open the door as he straightens up from his crouch. ‘I choose abandoned places out of curtesy.’

‘Are you actually serious?’ Mickey’s voice doesn’t echo in the completely empty house as he joins Ian inside which really freaks him out.

‘Totally serious.’

‘And you needed to pick the lock to get in? If you're a fucking angel, how come you couldn’t just… I don’t know, teleport us in. Hell, teleport us in to a damn unoccupied room in a hotel.’

‘It doesn’t work that way.’

‘So you keep saying.’

Ian sighs dramatically and turns around to face Mickey. ‘I’m in a human form.’

 _Human form_ sends a chill down Mickey’s spine because it really blatantly highlights the fact that the person in front of him actually _isn't_ a person. Mickey shrugs off the crawling sensation that’s embedded itself under his skin and puts on a scowl. ‘The fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘If I wasn’t confined to a human body, I could use my… _powers_ if that’s what you want to call it.’ He rubs a hand over his face and then his chest falls as he heaves out a heavy breath. ‘When I’m given an assignment, I’m forced into my human form and my… my fucking powers can only be used for one specific thing.’

Mickey’s still shocked at Ian’s relaxed swearing and so his eyebrows automatically go up but he doesn’t comment on it again. ‘What about that halo throwing shit, huh?’

Ian smiles and rolls his eyes. ‘Throwing a halo isn’t classed as a power, Mickey.’

‘Okay, fuckhead, how the hell was I supposed to know that?’

Ian shakes his head and then jabs a thumb over his shoulder towards the stairs. ‘Can we focus on finding somewhere to settle?’

‘Walking up there looks like a fucking suicide mission,’ Mickey grumbles under his breath, eyeing the steps warily.

‘Well, you’re already dead,’ Ian retorts frankly, bouncing on up the stairs. A sick feeling pools in Mickey’s stomach at how easily Ian throws that fact out there. He gulps and then gingerly makes his way to the second floor. He’s not going to let Ian know what he’s feeling, so he bites the inside of his cheek and hides it, watching Ian navigate through the top floor.

‘If I’m right… there should be some blankets from when I was last here in the closet…’

Mickey jerks his head back and stares at Ian as he pulls open a door in one of the completely stripped, decrepit bedrooms.

‘You come here often?’

Ian laughs quietly. ‘Yeah, I bring all my dead dates back here.’

‘Fuck off,’ Mickey mumbles before clearing his throat. ‘An angel squatting, though? Seriously?’ This entire situation seems dodgy and Mickey’s not even sure why he’s still playing along.

‘Oh yeah,’ Ian wheezes as he reaches up to grab the ridiculously moth eaten blankets from the top shelf of the closet. They fall down into his arms in a cloud of dust and dead insects. ‘The glamour of being a celestial being doing it for you?’

‘Fuckin’- just stop, okay?’

Ian frowns, throwing the covers unceremoniously to the ground and dusting his hands off. ‘Stop what?’

‘This… This blasé fuckin’ joking.’

Ian sighs and starts to sort through the pile on the floor. ‘This isn’t my first time at the rodeo, Mickey.’

‘That ain’t my fucking problem.’ Mickey scratches his jaw and then breathes out loudly. ‘Look, you're tired as fuck, I’m tired as fuck, let’s just call it a day.’

Then Ian lets out a proper laugh, practically hugging himself with the force of it, like his organs are gonna fucking explode out of his _human form_ if he doesn’t physically hold himself together. ‘Uh huh, I’ll just sort that out for you; you go back to normal, I take a vacation, everybody wins and everything’s fine.’

‘That’s a desperate fuckin’ laugh you’ve got there,’ Mickey says, because it’s true. There’s hysteria in it that can only come with a lifetime of not being free.

‘Mmm,’ Ian replies wistfully, returning to his task of doling out the covers and effectively dropping the subject. ‘Put two on the ground and have the thicker one to put on top of you.’

‘Surprised no one lifted these,’ Mickey comments idly before drawing his eyebrows together. ‘You need sleep?’

Ian looks slightly confused at the question but answers anyway. ‘No, I just… I don’t know… I guess I do this to ease you into being dead.’

Mickey keeps scowling. ‘That makes no fucking sense.’

‘Sleeping’s a human thing, an _alive_ thing, so-‘

‘What the fuck.’ Mickey feels like the air’s been sucked out of him.

‘What?’

He doesn’t know why, but suddenly every feeling in his body builds up and channels to his fists, an overwhelming urge bubbling in his limbs to hit something because _holy shit he’s fucking dead and it’s not fucking fair_. Mickey expects his knuckles to smash straight through the drywall behind him but instead, sure, his hand goes right through but there’s no destruction in its path, the wall doesn’t buckle from the force of his punch.

He can’t do anything but scream and curl in on himself at the hopelessness of it all, digging his nails into his palms. What the fuck’s he supposed to do now?

After he’s done screaming out his frustration, the house is deathly silent, only the sounds of it creaking with age and neglect reaching Mickey’s ears.

Ian waits, still standing a few feet away from Mickey, before breaking the quiet.

‘You’re technically not tangible, Mickey. You can’t touch things, that’s why you couldn’t punch the wall.’

‘Then how _the fuck_ am I not fallin’ through the floorboards, huh?! How am I still fucking standing ‘cause fucking _technically_ the floor is a _thing_ that I am _touching_!’ He’s shouting so loudly he figures his throat should feel raw but it doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything.

Ian smiles and shrugs over-exaggeratedly. ‘Death’s questions.’

Mickey scrunches his eyes up and throws his arms up. ‘I am so fucking done with this. And you.’ He stabs a finger in Ian’s direction to punctuate it.

‘You’re not done until you’re ready to be done.’

‘Ugh!’ he manages to yell. He covers his eyes with one hand and then shakes his head slowly. Suddenly all the energy’s just draining out of him and he doesn’t have the willpower to express his frustration anymore. He sinks down onto his pile of blankets and presses his back against the wall. _Oh so leaning against the wall seems to be fucking fine but punching it’s not?_ He doesn’t really feel like looking into the logics of the situation much now that he’s so drained.

‘I’m fucking freezing,’ Mickey growls, desperately trying to keep hold of his anger so as to not show resignation to Ian.

‘No you’re not,’ Ian says simply as he sits down against the wall opposite Mickey.

‘Fuck off.’

‘I’ve been doing this for a long time, Mickey; I know you can’t feel the cold.’

‘Oh, yeah, all those fucking dead people you’ve trafficked to the afterlife, right? Experience?’

‘Exactly,’ Ian replies cheerily, but he seems kind of bitter at the same time, like he’s tired. Mickey doesn’t give enough of a fuck to ask into it so just bunches himself up a bit more, leaning against the crumbling drywall.

‘Fuck,’ Mickey breathes, the back of his skull radiating a dull pain as he draws his attention away from Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead logic, right


	3. Stage 3: Bargaining

When Mickey starts asking a million and one questions that always seem to have the same answer, Ian reckons he’s getting somewhere, that they’re progressing.

‘What if I gave you some premium coke?’

Ian simply stares in the way he knows conveys how powerful he is. Mickey seems to shrink slightly, suddenly uncertain of himself.

‘I doubt that this is the kind of situation that your experience with dealing drugs will sort out.’

Mickey nods and then looks to the side, chewing on his thumbnail absently. ‘You reckon we could go back in time, change the street I was on or somethin’?’

Ian bores his eyes into Mickey’s, picking up every little trace of vulnerability there. It causes a lump to form in his throat, something he’s never really experienced before and he doesn’t know why. He starts to card his hands through his hair and then drags them down to cover his eyes before heaving a large breath. The burden Ian feels with explaining why he can’t just _magic_ people back to life every time is exhausting and incredibly depressing, like there’s a weight on his existence that just grows heavier and heavier every time he has to let someone down.

‘Mickey…’

‘Yeah, yeah, okay,’ Mickey sighs, changing his position on top of the blankets so he’s looking at the ceiling instead of Ian’s face. Without Mickey’s questions, Ian doesn’t really know what to say. So hours pass where Ian just occupies himself with watching Mickey as he stares at the ceiling wordlessly. In a way, Ian thinks Mickey’s kind of beautiful; not perfect, more than a little bit rough around the edges and covered in scars that go way past being skin deep.

He looks away from Mickey because staring at him for too long makes him feel _sad_ and achy, like he wants to reach over and make everything better, although that would be impossible. It’s never been this intense before. Perhaps it’s Mickey’s soul, or maybe it’s how he attempts to hug the covers beneath him as he tries to remember how to sleep.

Ian can feel an all consuming itch, a want to be free starting up. This always happens and every time he learns to deal with it, because he can’t be free until his job’s done. He settles back against the ratty sheets and plays with the tassel trim of a tartan one. If he looks upwards for long enough he thinks he can see past the crumbling rooftop and up to the dark clouds.

‘Can you kill my dad?’

Ian raises his eyebrows in surprise at Mickey’s reedy voice and sits up, shifting on the covers until he’s leaning against the drywall, mirroring the new position Mickey’s in across the floor from Ian. ‘Why’d you ask?’

Mickey snorts and shakes his head, picking at a splinter on the floorboard. ‘Was thinkin’ maybe… maybe if you killed him I could…’

As Mickey trails off, chewing on his lip, Ian understands. He exhales deeply and almost gets up to go over and comfort Mickey but he knows the man wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, he sticks to what he’s always been taught to do in this situation no matter how dismal it makes him feel. Cold, hard facts.

‘You can’t trade someone else’s life for your own, Mickey. It’s not how it works.’

‘Hm.’

‘It’s final.’

‘Well that’s shit.’

Ian chuckles and rubs at his wrist in an incredibly human gesture that he’s adapted over time. ‘Yeah…’

Mickey’s quiet for a moment before he closes his eyes and sighs. ‘Being alive’s shitty.’

Ian bites his lip and shuffles slightly against the covers. ‘Mickey, you’re not ali-‘

‘I know!’ he snaps, eyes still closed but face taut with frustration. ‘I fucking… I think… I know, okay, but can you just… just let me fucking have this.’

Ian’s not entirely sure what specific thing Mickey’s referring to, or if it’s just some peace in general, but he complies anyway, closing his mouth and nodding.

‘Can we go for a walk or somethin’? I’m already getting damn cabin fever. This place is the fucking worst,’ Mickey mumbles after the brief lapse in conversation. Ian flicks his eyes over Mickey’s face, trying to gauge Mickey’s emotions but his outward expression doesn’t give much away, it’s more of a feeling of unease Ian can sense in the air around them.

‘Okay. I guess that should be fine. But we need to make it back here, okay? We need somewhere to stay,’ Ian insists. He’s not even supposed to allow this, he’s supposed to keep the… ‘ _client_ ’ in one place for the thought of death to fester in their mind until they eventually give in and he can complete the process.

Mickey nods and pushes himself up off the floor. Ian rushes over and finishes pulling Mickey up by gripping his forearm. Mickey frowns at the assistance but Ian needed to do it. He can’t even justify why to himself, but he needed to help him.

The clouds haven’t changed their shade since the last time Ian and Mickey had been outside and Ian’s used to this sameness, but Mickey isn’t. Ian keeps a subtle eye on him as he walks and can tell the man’s disturbed by how washed out everything is, how washed out his _world_ is. But the air’s obviously supposed to be cold and Mickey knows he should be shivering right now. Ian’s wings tremble from where they’re trapped inside his body and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so contained and claustrophobic. Mickey looks as if he’s feeling it too, spreading out his arms and breathing heavily. Ian doesn’t expect the suddenness of Mickey ceasing his walk and so continues for a good few paces before backtracking. Mickey’s legs stand firm as tree trunks with their roots ingrained into the earth and he doesn’t appear to want to move any time soon.

‘What is it?’ Ian asks, unable to keep the slight concern out of his tone. Mickey doesn’t answer right away, he stares at his twitching fingers and Ian thinks he’s imagining a cigarette nestled in between his middle and forefinger.

‘Figured if I could see my breath, I wouldn’t be dead. That was my last shot,’ Mickey says quietly. Ian watches as Mickey uproots his feet and starts on his way back to the house with emotion prickling at the place where his heart should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this is coming across as moving too fast? I hope this update was okay and sorry for the wait! Hopefully it won't be as long next time :)


	4. Stage 4: Depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated?? Wow

The idea of sleep is kind of soothing. Although Ian’s never been able to sleep, he tries to simulate it by letting his mind wonder. It floats around in a space outside of himself and he forgets himself, he forgets what he’s doing and he forgets the world beyond the backs of his eyelids. He can do this for days but time isn’t really a thing he’s familiar with anymore. Mickey may have been dead for weeks… for months, even.

As Ian finally opens his eyes, his ears pick up on a low, contained sob coming from the other side of the room. His protectiveness kicks in and he instantly shoots up into a sitting position.

‘Mickey?’ he says quietly, not wanting to startle him. He honestly doesn’t know how long Mickey’s been acting like this because he doesn’t know for how long he closed himself off from his surroundings.

‘The fuck do you want?’ Mickey sounds weak, Mickey sounds damaged, Mickey sounds like everything he’s not.

Ian shrugs and continues to watch Mickey with sad eyes that have seen too much pain. ‘Just checking to see you’re okay.’

Mickey laughs and then clears his throat, still facing away from Ian. ‘A’right. Okay. Yeah, I’m fuckin’ _peachy_ , Ian. Fuck.’

Ian sighs and stares at the ground. He doesn’t know how to work with Mickey. Anything he says doesn’t seem right, and he ends up feeling like shit, as if he’s isolated. He’s never felt so much like a separate, alien being before. Mickey seems to sense that Ian’s struggling, and starts to speak.

‘Ghosts can fuckin’ cry, huh. That’s new,’ he mumbles, finally rolling over to look at Ian, but he’s glaring unhappily now.

‘Did you cry much as a human?’ Ian asks, and it’s just a casual question from his end, but Mickey’s shudders like it’s vile and scary. Ian rolls his eyes at his own bluntness. ‘Sorry, when you were aliv-‘

‘I fucking got what you were askin’, you’re just makin’ shit worse for me now.’

Ian winces and draws his legs close to him, wrapping his arms around his knees.

He can see that Mickey knows he’s dead, but he also knows he’s not fully accepted it in his core. The day he stops reacting to Ian mentioning that he’s no longer living is the day Ian knows it’s time to make everything worse. He simultaneously can and can’t wait for everything to be over.

Ian presses his lips together and studies the grains of the floorboards for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to push things along. When he looks back up, he meets Mickey’s gaze and he experiences a wave of affection washing over him. He’s not unfamiliar with it, but he’s never allowed himself to really give in to more human emotions. He’s one of the more caring angels, he’s been told, but he’d always been berated for feeling like this towards any subject, whether that be a paternal feeling toward a young girl who had died too soon, or… Mickey. He shouldn’t think about the implications of feeling affection towards Mickey - he knows that won’t go down well from any angle.

He finally decides to ask something that he supposes he’s asked way too many times. ‘What’s wrong? We need to get through this, and the only way that’s gonna happen is if you tell me about what you’re feeling,’ Ian reluctantly pushes. There’s a long pause before Mickey sits up and there’re fresh tears brimming in his eyes. They look out of place and make Mickey’s eyes look like they’re made of glass. The burst of emotion in Mickey’s new yells affect Ian more than they should.

‘I’m fucking _dead_? How am I fucking dead?! Isn't death supposed to fucking end it? Why the fuck am I still here?!’

All Ian ever is is surrounded by dead things, but he’s never seen so much sorrow in an expression. He can’t help but feel responsible for snuffing the life out of Mickey Milkovich’s features.

‘Jesus fuck,’ Mickey mutters in a much calmer tone, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and waiting for his eyes to dry.

‘Anything else?’

Mickey glowers over at Ian then, fury in his gaze but it’s dull, kind of like he can’t muster up the energy to fully light up the anger. That’s how Ian knows they’re getting somewhere.

Acceptance isn’t grand, it isn’t pleasant, definitely not in this situation, anyway. Ian’s seen it play out in endless different ways, and it always boils down to resignation. No one’s ever willing for it to happen, they just want it to be over. He watches Mickey’s eyes and the distress, the feeling of being trapped and stuck, and he can tell Mickey has entered the stage where he wants it to be done. On the surface, Mickey’s no different from anyone else, but Ian can’t help but think that that’s just not true. Mickey’s special to him. Mickey’s unique.

It’s quiet between them for what seems like hours until Mickey finally sniffs and inclines his head towards Ian, nibbling at his bottom lip. His eyes are still red raw and it’s a horrible reminder that Ian can’t fix any of this for him. They’re moving on the conversation, but nothing’s changed about the situation.

‘You got a change of clothes? You look fuckin’ filthy.’ He looks like he hates how cracked his voice sounds.

Ian sighs and runs a hand down his face, taking a moment to look at Mickey before tipping his head back until it knocks against the wall. Mickey can’t know how any of this works; Ian barely knows, himself. ‘My clothing gets dirtier as you get closer to accepting everything. At the end it turns black.’ _Kind of like your impure, wretched feelings stain my being._

Mickey stares blankly over at Ian for a few moments before sniffing again. ‘Nah, I think you just need a shower. Think they’ve got the water connected here?’

Ian’s eyes follow Mickey as he gets up to find the bathroom. He’s dealt with this kind of thing hundreds of times before, _thousands_ , more… But this time it’s different. It’s a painful pull somewhere inside himself that’s reaching out for Mickey, that wants to connect. The feeling lasts until Mickey disappears around the corner, but Ian knows he won’t go far.


End file.
